Chapter Text
It wasn’t that Wilson wasn’t used to being alone, really. He’d made the conscious choice to isolate himself, out in this thick forest. It suited him.
Even though he had been somewhat unceremoniously fired from the university, he had a spacious workroom to set up his equipment in. The house itself was rickety enough that Wilson felt no guilt when he scorched the wallpaper or put a hole through the floor, but sturdy enough that it wouldn’t come crashing down- at least, not without a lot of provocation on his part.
And if his family (or what remained of it, anyway) never came to visit? Maybe it was for the best. There were- several things about him they had chosen not to come to terms with. Since he was a child, Wilson had always been tinkering, putting things together, taking them apart again: something he reckoned he had probably gotten from his great-aunt’s frequent visits. His parents had never quite approved of his leaving the family business, but after the… incident at the university they had withdrawn all support, and Wilson had come to live here, at Aunt Winona’s long-abandoned house.
For the most part, life went swimmingly. There were pensive walks in the surrounding wood, occasional explosions, sketching in a multitude of journals, more explosions, and the (admittedly rare) letters from former colleagues. Yes, there was definitely nothing he lacked.
Well, except maybe progress.
Out of pure frustration, Wilson had decided to abandon his newest pet project (quite literally, he had tried and failed to reanimate several mice) and sink into his old past-time of taking things apart. His radio was one of the newest models, but already the gears in his brain were turning, pondering how he might expand its range and maybe get a few more programs.
He had finished the last of the wiring and was putting the knobs back on when surprisingly, a blast of static came out of the speaker. Wilson scrambled to re-attach the volume knob, ears ringing from the deafening sound.
“I’ve broken another one,” he sighed. The static, much quieter, cleared somewhat, reappearing in short but uniform bursts. Picking up on the pattern, Wilson listened more intently. Morse code? Or just more random noise? Then the bursts grew more intelligible, almost as if…
“I sa…. re you lis…..ng, pal?”
“What? Is someone there?” he murmured, pressing his ear to the speaker.
“Yes,” the radio hissed. Wilson, who had just remembered the voice in the machine had no way of hearing him, got the feeling something was distinctly wrong. His curiosity had the better of him, though, and he pressed forward.
“Who… who is this? Can you hear me?”
“Y….now, pal, you might hav……ck if you adjus……..”
“Oh! Oh, right.” Wilson fiddled with the frequency knob.
“Much better, isn’t it? I must say, you’re quite the talent.”
“Really, this is nothing,” he said, a bit flustered from the unwarranted praise. “I’ve always had a, an inventive mind, I guess, and…”
“I’ve been so rude,” the voice cut in. “I haven’t answered your question. You may call me Maxwell. I suppose we should at least know each other’s names if we are to be acquainted properly.”
“My name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, but Wilson is fine.”
“Wilson. That’s a lovely name.”
“Oh, um, so is yours. Maxwell. It’s very… distinguished.” Maxwell chuckled through the radio at that remark, and Wilson felt himself grow more self-conscious. “By the way- how are we hearing each other, exactly? I might have some prowess, but nothing quite as far as two-way communication.”
“You do underestimate yourself, pal, although it is a bit of interference from my end. I think it would be best not to explain in detail until we get to know each other a little better.”
“Yes. Because of… patents and things, I understand.”
“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we could both use some rest.”
“Alright. Goodnight, Maxwell.”
“Goodnight, my dear Wilson.” The radio went silent, and Wilson sat, holding the box in his hands, for a long while.
Over the next weeks, Wilson and his new friend had built quite the repertoire. It stung a lot less each time he had to go back to the drawing board when Maxwell was there to comfort him or give him a nudge in the right direction.
Something deep in his intuition still nagged at him, skeptical of how conveniently they were able to communicate or how little Maxwell talked of his own life. Most of the time, he chose to quash his suspicion. When was the last time he had truly had a peer to exchange ideas with? When was the last time he had felt this fulfilled, happy even? He knew he had some self-destructive tendencies, but this was not the time to listen to his negative thoughts. Not when he and Maxwell were on the cusp of their next discovery.
Unfortunately, he very much felt discouraged when his teleportation experiment blew up in his face yet again. Sighing, he slumped into his armchair, preparing to cut his losses and start over again with a more advantageous combination of chemicals. The radio by his side crackled to life, and he turned eagerly to it.
“Say, pal,” sang a familar, sanguine voice. “Looks like you’re having some trouble!”